


Concussion

by quadrotriticale



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Gen, POV Second Person, POV Steve Rogers, its still like 1930s/40s and theyre still in brooklyn, pre serum and everything
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-04
Updated: 2018-12-04
Packaged: 2019-09-07 09:54:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16851850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quadrotriticale/pseuds/quadrotriticale
Summary: A punch connects with your chin and sends you stumbling backwards into hard, metal garbage cans. You're going to lose this fight, you're already seeing stars, already dizzy. You think that one might have knocked a tooth loose- at the very least, it jarred you more than enough to leave you reeling. You think some people would give up, at this point, put their hands up and surrender to a much bigger, much stronger opponent. Not you, though. You're about the worst person to be doing this too, scrawny and sickly, wheezing as you try to catch your breath. You're really no match for this guy you've found yourself trading blows with in a grimy alley, but when has that every stopped you?





	Concussion

**Author's Note:**

> this has been in my docs for a while so like. hammered it out and got it posted i guess, here you go. its stucky if you squint but i didn't really write it with that in mind.  
> its also not great and i should be writing a paper right now but get fucked @ me

A punch connects with your chin and sends you stumbling backwards into hard, metal garbage cans. You're going to lose this fight, you're already seeing stars, already dizzy. You think that one might have knocked a tooth loose- at the very least, it jarred you more than enough to leave you reeling. You think some people would give up, at this point, put their hands up and surrender to a much bigger, much stronger opponent. Not you, though. You're about the worst person to be doing this too, scrawny and sickly, wheezing as you try to catch your breath. You're really no match for this guy you've found yourself trading blows with in a grimy alley, but when has that every stopped you?

Whether it’s stupidity or bravery that drives you up, bruised, bleeding, and dizzy from the hit, you push yourself off the trash, put your fists up again, a look of cold determination on your face. You have to stand up for yourself, you can’t just hide behind people who are bigger than you, even if it’s safer. 

The guy laughs at you. There’s hardly a scratch on him, you think the only way anyone would know he’s been fighting at all is his bruised knuckles. You, on the other hand, probably look like you’ve been hit by a truck. Maybe you're in too deep. 

“You don’t know when to give up, do you, Shrimp?” says the guy, condescendingly. He seems to think this is funny and it irks you. You want to punch him but you refrain for now, unsteady on your feet. He'd knock you off your feet again, if you tried to punch him. You think it's better to try and play the defensive.

“No, can’t say I do.” Bucky’ll show up soon, you're sure. You're not where you're supposed to be at this time, and he'd have gotten off work a little while ago. He knows enough by now to know to come looking for you when you don't show up at home on time, lest you get hit so hard you die in a gutter somewhere. As much as you appreciate the backup, you want to fight your own battles. You don't want to need him to bail you out every time you get yourself so deep in situations like this, but there's been a few times now where you got hurt bad enough that you wouldn't have been able to hobble home without him there. You're lucky to have a friend who cares about you as much as he does, and you're lucky to have someone who's so willing to put up with your recklessness, but you wish, sometimes, that you were strong enough, tough enough to handle yourself in a fight. Instead you're small, slow, asthmatic, kind of an easy target.

Today's foe watches you as you list a little to the side, struggling to keep yourself upright, struggling for breath. He thinks it’s funny, laughs at you and says something you don’t hear. Angered, throwing rational thought to the wind like you usually do, you lunge at him only to have him dodge and shove you back towards the garbage bins. Your world spins, and you think you’re going to vomit. The guy says something, kicks your legs only to have you try to kick his shins. You don’t quite register what happens next. It’s entirely possible that you pass out, but you don’t know. That guy was pretty liberal with the headshots, you probably have another concussion. Great.

Someone lifts you up, tries to get you to walk, but your legs don’t seem to want to work. Whoever it is sighs, worries over you for a moment before you attempt to open your eyes, groan, and cover them with your hands. Your head pounds, you can hear your heart in your ears. He’s going to have to carry you home again, isn't he. You weigh about 90 pounds soaking wet, and you know who this is even in your haze. He can handle it, he's a lot stronger than you, he's had to haul you home more times than your pride will let you admit. Bucky lifts you up and starts walking and your stomach churns. 

You make it about a block before you have to tap him urgently, squirm to get yourself down. You don’t make it very far before you’re heaving, ridding your stomach of it’s contents (all over the sidewalk). Your head swims and you almost pass out in your own vomit, but you vaguely register someone catching you, keeping you more or less upright before you slip under. 

You wake up an indeterminate amount of time later on your couch, a cool cloth over your forehead. You try to get up but don’t make it very far, a hand gently pushing you back down. You think if you would have actually stood up, you would have fainted- but of course, that wouldn’t have stopped you from trying. The room spins, and you squeeze your eyes shut like that’ll make it stop. 

“You really gotta stop getting yourself beat up like that, Steve,” someone says somewhere close to you. Of course, it’s Bucky, as full of concern as he is mild amusement. “S’not a crime to run from a fight, you know. Or, better yet, just not pick one in the first place. Pretty sure you'd be a lot better off if you just kept your damn mouth shut."

You wheeze a laugh, “He had it coming, though.”

“What was it this time,” he starts, and he sounds to you like he’s on the floor beside you now, “you get into an argument defending some girl, or were you just annoying a guy twice your size again?”

“Little of both, maybe,” you slur. His laugh sounds like music, and you think you might be a little delirious.

He removes the cloth from your forehead for a moment, and when it touches back down, it’s cold again. He must have some water with him. “Sooner or later, I’m not gonna be there to back you up, you know, you gotta be more careful. Some guy’s gonna have a knife, or some guys gonna beat you so bad you can’t drag yourself home, and you’re gonna get yourself killed, yeah? You gotta be more careful.”

“Yeah, yeah.” He tells you this every time you get hurt, every time you end up bleeding and concussed on the couch or on the floor or in a hospital bed, every time you do something stupid and he has to come rescue you. You never listen, you’re pretty sure he doesn’t expect you to at this point. 

You drift in and out for a while, sleep a few hours before headaches wake you up, sleep a few more, wobble to the bathroom, fall down trying to get back to the couch. You’re kind of frail, pretty bad at taking a hit for someone who’s taken so many. Or, maybe, you're good at it. You keep getting up, after all. No one's ever been able to keep you from getting back on your feet yet.

Bucky’s gone later, one of that times that you wake up. You don’t hear him moving around, and when you call out, he doesn’t answer. It’s light out now so you assume he’s gone to work, guess that you must have slept through the night. You shuffle to the window, draw the blinds, and then shuffle back for a change of clothes and a glass of water. All of that done, you deposit yourself back on the couch, and try to rest. It doesn’t go well, but you can’t muster the energy to do anything else with your headache, and you do sleep a few hours. Your head pounds, and if you move too quickly you find yourself dizzy, but you guess it could be worse. 

It’s getting into the evening, when Bucky gets home. You’ve been in and out all day, sleeping, occasionally getting up for water, to eat something if you felt up to it, to use the bathroom, though you mostly stayed on the couch. You tried to draw, but sitting up for too long made you dizzy, so your sketchbook and pencil are still on the floor beside you.

He asks you how you’re doing, and you just groan. He laughs, and you hide a smile in your pillow. 

“Got you something for your headaches… and your general aches, I guess,” he tells you, setting a little corked bottle on top of your sketchbook as he walks past. You mumble thanks into your pillow, and he keeps talking at you. 

“Saw that nurse from last time today too, Betty? You remember her,” you do, she was pretty. Brunette, maybe a little older than you. You vaguely remember Bucky flirting with her once it was clear you were out of the woods. “Got a date. Might be handy having a nurse around, huh?” You snicker into your pillow. Yeah, it sure would be. You’re pretty sure it’s going to end like all his other flings though, so you won’t get your hopes up.

He makes dinner with what little food you have in the kitchen, and you manage to eat all of it with a little reluctance. It’s not bad, Bucky’s a fine cook when he wants to be, you’re just a little worried about throwing up… but you haven’t eaten much since yesterday, and that really isn’t a good thing for you to do, so you eat up. 

...And the evening passes comfortably. He sits with you on the couch eventually, once you’ve rolled over. You throw your legs across his lap and let him tell you about his day, talk to him about whatever he feels like talking about. It’s quiet, it’s nice, and you fall asleep on the couch again some hours later. 

You’ll have many nights like this within the next couple years, you in varying states of disarray but quiet and comfortable in the drafty apartment you share with your best friend. It’s a memory you’ll treasure when circumstances pick your life apart piece by piece, carrion to the whims and of the world around you. But that’s still a long way off, an inevitability you know nothing about now, something you won’t even consider for a while yet. Night in New York is noisy, but you sleep well.


End file.
